Yet In Thy Dark Streets Shineth
by RobinRocks
Summary: USUKUS: 2012 Christmas countdown collection. Their celebrations throughout the years as the world changes and so do they. Set in the same continuity as '1912'.
1. 1720

Well, well, can you believe it's that time of year yet again? Where the hell has 2012 gone, that's what _I'd _like to know. It seems like I was complaining I wanted my 2010 back only last month... o.O

So, slightly different set-up to last year, which had one-shots from allsorts of WWII AUs and quasi-AUs; this year all the fics are set in the same continuity as _**1912**_, a fic I wrote in April focusing on the maiden voyage of the _RMS Titanic_. _1912 _was canon, more or less, rather than a retelling-of-the-James-Cameron-film-with-Arthur-and-Alfred-replacing-Rose-and-Jack and focused as much on the complacent and arrogant world that produced the _Titanic _and her tragedy as it did on the ship herself (bear in mind this was the world that changed forever two years later when WWI broke out). Although it was canon, I enjoyed writing the angle _1912 _took and decided to revisit the universe for this year's Christmas countdown. With that said, you **don't **neccessarilyhave to have read _1912 _to make sense of these stories. In many ways, this collection - which ascends up to WWII in chronological order - speaks for itself.

I hope. :3

1720

"The _story_, Arthur," Alfred insisted, tugging at Arthur's arm as he trotted alongside him. "The one about the magical old man in Europe who brings gifts to good children!"

"Oh, that. It's just something Gilbert told me - a German tradition. I believe the Dutch celebrate it too."

"I like it," Alfred said earnestly. "Tell me again, Arthur!"

"Very well - but you must take my hand and not let go. I shouldn't want you to slip."

Alfred, who had been skipping ahead to crack every last thin skin of ice between cobblestones, obediently reached up to put his small gloved hand into Arthur's, hanging on tight. It was Christmas Eve, a frosty late afternoon with the sun beginning to slink away behind Boston's buildings, the sky painted with chilled purples, and they were bundled up against the cold in thick furs and soft suedes. This was a habit of theirs - an afternoon stroll into the town for idle pleasantry - and the time of year (nor date) made little difference to their errand. Alfred was energetic and wild and the walk helped to tire him out; and besides, he liked to see the ships at their moorings in the harbour and the things in the shop windows, toys and clothes and fresh-baked loaves of bread.

Alfred started to paw at Arthur's pocket as they walked past the lit shops towards the new Massachusetts Town House.

"What on earth are you doing?" Arthur asked quizzically, looking down at him.

"Looking for the sweeties." Alfred stopped and stood on his tip-toes to rifle thoroughly in the pocket of Arthur's fur-lined frock coat. "Did you hide them from me?"

"Yes. If I give them to you, you won't eat your dinner."

"I only want one!" Alfred held up precisely one finger to enunciate this. "One sweetie, please, Arthur."

Arthur arched his eyebrows.

"And you want the story too, I expect."

"Of course!" Alfred looked up at him with big eyes, his hand open in expectation.

Since taking in Alfred and dedicating himself to the role of a parent - rather than the parts, like soldier or pirate, that he knew how to play very well - Arthur had discovered something about himself: he was very bad at arguing with children. It was clear that he would have to wait until Alfred grew to be at least the same height as him before he could learn to tell him no; for as it stood, Commodore Arthur Kirkland, renowned privateer, once Drake's equal for Elizabeth's affections, merciless king of the high seas, was wrapped around this brat's little finger.

Grumbling to himself, Arthur wrested the folded paper from his inner pocket and held it out; within its rustling folds were bright shards of coloured rock sugar, over which Alfred deliberated with great care before selecting a red one. He popped it into his mouth and then held up a yellow one for Arthur, who had to stoop to take it.

"When are you going to grow taller, sprout?" he grumbled around the burst of sugar; they were an expensive treat, reserved for this time of year alongside chocolates and spiced cake.

Alfred merely stuck his tongue out at him, already stained red. Arthur sighed and put the sweets away, holding out his hand again. Alfred put his little one into it once more and they carried on their way down the frosted street aglitter in the late afternoon sun. It was very cold and crisp and Arthur expected snow.

"_The story_, Arthur!" Alfred demanded again, half-skipping to match his steps. "Or we shall be home before you tell it!"

"Oh, very well." Arthur smiled fondly at him. "Though Gilbert tells it better than I."

To European children, it was nothing new: the tale of St Nicholas and his flying white horse who filled the shoes of good children with treats and small toys on the evening of December 6th. Even the English, who did not observe it, as such, knew the story: but Alfred found it fascinating and asked many questions about the kindly old man and his wondrous steed, many of which Arthur had no answer to.

"But _how _does he go to every house in Germany and Holland all in one night?" he inquired; they were away from Boston now, treading the flattened path between the tall, naked black birches with their silver-skinned branches, the moon beginning to rise through the mist.

"He must be a fairy, is my conclusion," Arthur replied. "Time for fairies is different to that of men."

"I shall leave out my shoes and hope he comes," Alfred decided, "and wait up for him to ask."

"I'm afraid you are too late this year," Arthur said gently. "His night is December 6th - not Christmas Eve. Really, the two are not related."

"Oh." Alfred looked glum for all of three seconds. "Then next year I shall wait for him!" He tugged Arthur's sleeve. "Do you think he would teach me how to fly, too?"

"Perhaps if you asked him nicely enough." Arthur looked down at him, his green eyes bright and mischievous. "Though be warned, for if he _is _a fairy, he might might whisk you away forever to travel in ageless youth by his side."

The deepness of Boston's untamed woodland seemed to echo now, for Alfred drew closer to Arthur's side, away from the black edges of the wilderness.

"You would not let that happen, would you?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, would you not want that?" Arthur teased. "I thought you should like the adventure, flying all over the world by night?"

"Not forever," Alfred said. "Not unless you could come too, Arthur."

"I don't think old Nick would allow that. I expect I'm too old for him to bother with."

"Then I shan't go - not even if he promises me all the sweets and toys he has in his workshop!" Alfred said vehemently, clinging to Arthur's arm. "I want to stay with you forever!"

Arthur said nothing to this, pausing to look down at the child all but wrapped around him; Alfred had his eyes squeezed shut, fiercely clutching at him. Arthur carded his gloved hand through the boy's pale hair before bending down to lift him, taking him into his arms. Alfred nuzzled into him, the tip of his little nose cold against his neck.

"I did not intend to frighten you," Arthur said quietly, beginning to walk again. His breath clouded around his words and the brittle soil crunched underfoot, his steps echoing. They were completely alone on the moonlit road. "There is nothing to fear, especially not on this night. And besides..." He felt the child cuddle into the thick fur of his collar. "...I have you. You are safe."

Tonight was a night to spend in front of the fire; and tomorrow they would descend the frosted path once more in their best clothes to the Anglican church (never Puritan - Arthur disliked their ways, being a dabbler in decadence) for the Christmas service. All would be bright and new, fresh-laden with the snow that would fall in the blackest night-

But for now they swept in silence through the frost, deeper still into the untamed heart of the colonies with naught but the promise of borrowed tradition to light their way home.


	2. 1865

Up to the Victorian era for a bit of (quasi) Gothic glamour tonight!

Thanks to: **Greece's kitty**, **IcarusWing** and** Lamashtar Two**!

1865

Alfred had never been to Arthur's house; or _one of _his houses, as the case stood, at least not the ones he had dotted all over his own land as opposed to other people's. Truthfully, in fact, he hadn't really spoken to Arthur in years, much less seen him. 1843, 1844 perhaps... That had been the last time. He'd had plenty of other things on his plate since, things like half the people of his nation trying to form their own nation, petty squabbles like that...

Given that he'd still been Arthur's colony this time a century ago, it made him exhausted to even think about it. He slouched in the back of the cab as it rattled over the hill to whichever manor house in whichever dead-end part of England this was. He'd had invitations to Arthur's Christmas parties for well over a decade but this was the first one he was able to attend and, this being the first Christmas in a good many years he hadn't had something bloodier or more important to see to, he had decided to sail over and make the effort. Free food was always worth the effort.

The house was perfectly antiquitated, exactly as he'd expected; narrow windows, veil of ivy, tall chimneys peaking like battlements from the roof. All the windows were lit and he could hear the music drifting from within as at last he stepped down from the carriage and stretched his back; and he dallied a moment, suddenly feeling too shy to just march up to that imposing front door and barge his way into what was essentially the heart of Europe, most of whom he had never met. Arthur, he was quite certain, invited him every year out of mere formality and likely didn't expect him to turn up; and Alfred doubted that Arthur would pay him much heed anyway. Empires were moth-flames, always surrounded by far more company than they had need for. No, he didn't expect more than a polite hello from the host, leaving him to hope that Francis or Gilbert would be here, a familiar face for him to cling to.

His courage at last rallied, he went to the door and knocked, examining the frost on the window panes in the agonising wait; and a serving man came to let him in, welcoming him with a nod and pinched face.

"Should I inform Commodore Kirkland of your arrival, Mr...?"

"Oh, Jones," Alfred said breezily, peeling off his coat. "Alfred F. Nah, don't bother him."

"You are a colleague?"

"Is that what you call us?" Alfred grinned weakly as the servant took his coat. "Yeah, United States of America. But really, please don't disrupt him. I doubt he even expected me to show up."

"On the contrary, sir, he said he hoped that you would this year." With that, the serving man bustled off, leaving Alfred standing in the hall in his rather shabby suit, all he could afford after years of Civil War.

Arthur had probably said that only in passing, he supposed, perhaps because Alfred had spent so many years snubbing his invitations for one reason or another; still, he wondered for a glimpse of him and inched to the door to the drawing room, slightly ajar. Bright light spilled from within, as did lively piano music and the sound of merriment as voices mingled in cheerful chatter. His heart fluttered with relief to see, through the gap, a few familiar figures - Francis was talking to a pretty woman with a flower in her curling brown tresses, whilst Gilbert was talking excitedly at a serious-looking young man with blue eyes and pale blonde hair neatly oiled back. He recognised olive-skinned Antonio, too, and the severe-faced Berwald. He couldn't see Arthur, however.

Not much escaped Gilbert, who apparently spotted him lurking behind the door and came bounding over, dragging his companion with him.

"Decided to grace us with your presence at long last, have you?!" he demanded boistrously, seizing Alfred by the back of his collar and hauling him into the room. "After all I did for you, too!"

"Hello, Gilbert," Alfred replied breathlessly, squirming free. "It's been a while."

"1789 or something like that!" Gilbert turned to his companion, who was trying to edge away. "West, this is the famous upstart of Arthur's."

"Oh, I see." The young man put out his hand to shake politely. "I have heard of you, Alfred Jones. My name is Ludwig."

He had a very similar accent to Gilbert's - thick and guttural, though his English was impeccable.

"My little brother," Gilbert explained, his eyebrows raised. "But please don't think I sneaked him in with me; the fact is that he's the guest of honour. Victoria and Albert always made sure to invite him back before... well, I expect you heard about Albert."

"Yeah." Alfred looked at Ludwig. "Then... I suppose you must know Arthur quite well, then."

Ludwig nodded.

"We are friends, yes."

"That sounds nice," Alfred said a little stiffly.

"Where _is _Arthur, anyway?" Gilbert asked loudly. "He'd better not be flirting with Belle again, _I _want a chance with her for once..."

"He is with his queen." Ludwig glanced towards the staircase. "I expect he shall return shortly."

"Oh, yeah, she doesn't get out much any more..." Gilbert rolled his scarlet eyes. "Lucky Arthur fawns over her like a second husband. She's not even much to look at-"

"Gilbert," Ludwig said sharply, "that is unkind. And besides..." He cleared his throat, nodding towards the stairs. "...It would not do for him to hear you."

Alfred followed Ludwig's gaze, his heart nervously skittering to see Arthur descending the grand staircase. He looked magnificent, radiating the grace and confidence of a nation on top of the world - this was truly his century, after all, the keyholder of an empire many times larger than Rome's. It showed in his clothing, tailored of the finest materials his four corners had to offer, glossed silks and delicate taffetas; he wore black evening dress with long tails and a deep burgundy waistcoat, offset with a cravat of pale gold to light his hair. This was stuck through with a ruby pin, which gleamed the same colour as the scarlet sash across his chest. Alfred, who was used to seeing him in either well-worn tunics or mud-spattered military uniforms, was a little taken aback at him looking like a fairytale prince who'd stepped out of his illustration.

"Mein gott," Gilbert said with a sly smile, "does little Alfred see something he likes?"

"Wh...? N-no, I just-"

Gilbert gave a piercing whistle across the room, making Ludwig wince and throwing the pianist - a cross-looking bespectacled man with auburn hair - off with a fierce tinkling of wrong keys. Arthur looked up with a scowl as he entered the throng of guests.

"What, no, don't call him over here!" Alfred hissed; although he was scandalised to see that Arthur was already stalking over, weaving his way between his glittering guests.

"Ugh, I'm not going to sit around and watch you pine after him all night," Gilbert muttered. "He'll be impossible to talk to once he gets drunk, anyway..."

"I hope you realise," Arthur bitched as he reached them, "that Roderich is going to be grumpy all evening now; and besides which, don't beckon me in such a vulgar manner when Her Majesty is present in the house-"

"Yeah, yeah, Arthur loves Vicky, whatever." Gilbert waved his hand dismissively before gesturing to Alfred, who was attempting to duck behind Ludwig. "Look who finally showed his face."

"Oh!" Arthur blinked at him. "Alfred! What a... a pleasant surprise. Unexpected, to say the least, but..."

"Ah, well, you know..." Alfred shrugged in an attempt to seem as nonchalant as possible. "I didn't have anything better to do."

"Hm." Arthur's thick eyebrows arched ever so slightly. "No, I suppose you don't."

With that, his jade eyes flittered to Ludwig, whom he addressed in German. Ludwig smiled and replied; and allowed Arthur to lead him away, the both of them vanishing into the crowd.

"Huh." Gilbert looked disappointed. "Well, that was boring." He looked at Alfred, who had wilted a bit at the lukewarm reception. "...Still, you have a bit of attitude on you still. This is the etiquette of Europe, even for the ill-informed like me: you _never _have anything better to do than go to Arthur Kirkland's Christmas party. He's the most powerful nation in the world."

"Please," Alfred replied impatiently, "he knows I've been dealing with a Civil War-"

"Too bad," Gilbert cut in, smacking Alfred in the forehead. "He's an empire - they're merciless motherfuckers. It comes with the territory. If you want his attention, you have to try harder than that"

"Who says I want his attention?" Alfred contested hotly.

"Do I look stupid to you?" Gilbert beckoned. "Now come on; let's go and slide up and down the hallway in our socks."

* * *

Gilbert was drunk and draped over Francis, who looked less than pleased given that he was trying to woo some busty girl in a pink gown; leaving Alfred to wallow by himself on one of the long couches. The party was beginning to slow down as the clock drifted ever nearer to midnight - soon it wouldn't be Christmas any more. The food and the company had been wonderful and Alfred had enjoyed himself, although there was no sense to be gotten out of Gilbert any longer and he felt a bit adrift in the old blood of Europe, most of whom didn't show very much interest in him.

So he was surprised when Arthur appeared out of nowhere and flopped down next to him; he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, stretching out his slender legs.

"Tired?" Alfred asked (because he couldn't think of anything else to say).

"Yes," Arthur groaned. "I always forget I spend most of my time at these fiascos trying to stop people from breaking things..." He opened his eyes and looked towards Alfred. "Are you tired, Alfred?"

"Yes." Alfred paused. "Still."

Arthur gave an understanding nod.

"I expected as much," he said quietly. "I know how much those wars take out of you. There's nowhere to take refuge." He reached out suddenly and put his hand on top of Alfred's, patting it. "I was sorry, you know, to hear about Lincoln. He was good for you."

"Thanks." Alfred smiled weakly at him. "I miss him. It's so much harder to sort out the mess without him." He blew upwards, ruffling his hair. "...I was sorry to hear about Albert."

"Ah, yes. That hasn't been easy, either. Her Majesty has taken it so hard." Arthur absently smoothed down his sash. "It's good to see you. I'm glad you didn't snub me this year." He gestured around the room, growing dim by the burning oil and dying fire; at the magnificent fir tree decorated with bright baubles of coloured glass and tiny white candles. "What do you make of the tree? It was Ludwig's idea."

"I like it." Alfred nodded politely, glancing at it. "It's lovely."

Arthur gave a sigh.

"It was too much to hope," he murmured, "that you wouldn't be distant with me. It's been so long, after all."

"I'm not being distant," Alfred said, a little bit crossly.

"Oh, but you are," Arthur sighed. "Not deliberately - but it's not there anymore." He gave a sad smile. "The trust. The bond."

"I think we blew _that _in 1776," Alfred said dryly.

"But I'm still _me_," Arthur pressed, agonised.

Alfred peered hard at him; given that nations physically reflected their wealth and glory, it was no surprise that Arthur looked as good as he did, even his hair like fine-spun gold and his green eyes as bright as jewels. This wasn't the colonial creature, the teenaged Arthur with pockets full of sweets and toys and a head full of wild stories, the adventure-seeking privateer always bubbling just beneath the skin of what he assumed was a responsible adult. It was difficult for Alfred to equate his naive, trouble-making guardian with the greedy, ruthless, beautiful being before him.

"_Are _you, Arthur?" Alfred asked quietly.

Arthur sniffed haughtily, crossing one leg over the other.

"I should ask you that," he said coolly. "You're the one who changed from a cute little colony into... into... _this_!" He flapped his hand irritably at Alfred. "_You're _the one who changed, my lad."

"Yeah." Alfred looked up at the ceiling. "I suppose I am."

Arthur, he suspected, was fairly drunk, mooning over Alfred's childhood after earlier being clearly offended by his's non-European social faux pas; but either way, he considered it something of a small victory that he hadn't had to try all that hard to get Arthur's attention after all. Mathematically, perhaps it had only been a matter of time. The bond might be corroded but the history was always there.

Arthur leaned against him suddenly, resting his cheek on his shoulder.

"Do you get lonely over there all by yourself?" he asked. "Not counting Matthew."

"A little bit," Alfred admitted, "but that doesn't mean I want to be your colony again."

Arthur laughed.

"Heavens, I know that. I just wondered." He sighed. "I do - even though I have an entire empire, sometimes I still feel... so alone."

"Is that why you throw these parties?"

"I suppose so. It's a bit pathetic, really, given how powerful I am." Another sigh, deeper. "God knows what I'd do if everyone stopped paying attention to me."

Alfred paused.

"Maybe... maybe you and I could spend more time together again," he said at length. "Like before."

"I'd like that." Arthur wrapped his hand around Alfred's. "I miss you."

"I miss you too. But in an I-don't-want-to-be-your-colony-again sort of way."

"Fair enough." Their fingers entwined as they snuggled closer together. "Sometimes things change for the best anyway: this way... we can be friends."

"Mmm." Alfred drowsily watched the winding-down of the party for a long moment before his eyes slid closed, the lights dancing beyond them. It was warm and comfortable and he could feel Arthur's breathing against him. "...You know, Art, for the world's biggest empire... you're not as bad as everyone says you are."

"I'm really not," Arthur agreed gently, folding his legs up beneath himself to curl up against Alfred in all his finery. There was silence between them for a long moment, bathed in the idle chatter of the remaining guests and the sleeping fire. Roderich was playing something soft and half-formed, pleasant to listen to, on the piano.

"Oh," Arthur added suddenly in the same quiet tone, "but if I catch you skating up and down my hallway again, I'll rip your fucking head off."


	3. 1912

We're at the halfway mark and this is the one the whole "continuity" hinges on, I suppose: this segment is set during the Christmas of 1912 when Alfred and Arthur are living the Jack-and-Rose life after leaving the _RMS Carpathia _in New York. This is the one fic that might not make a whole lot of sense if you haven't read _1912_! (As a pre-cursor for the uninitiated: Arthur is battling an eating disorder in the original fic, a manifestation of the bloated, stagnant pre-WWI world that produced the _Titanic _tragedy.)

Thank you to:** ROTI, amoka22, IcarusWing, Empress Vegah **and** Lamashtar Two**!

1912

"Arty." Alfred batted playfully at Arthur's hand with a wooden spoon. "Get away from that."

Arthur backed away from the bubbling pot with a roll of his eyes, rubbing at his hand.

"I'm just looking," he muttered. He nodded towards the cook book propped open on the worksurface. "And how precisely _are _you following Mrs Beeton, may I ask?"

"Oh, you know me." Alfred gave a cheerful shrug. "I sort of make it up as I go along."

Arthur stiffened, glaring at him.

"I'd prefer it if you followed it as written," he said coolly.

"Well, too bad." Alfred's own tone grew a degree colder now. "I don't see what difference it makes given that you promised you wouldn't do the calculations." He shot Arthur a look. "Remember how you promised me that?"

Arthur fidgeted, looking away, all around the cracked walls of their tiny kitchen.

"I'm going to make some tea," he decided distractedly, making for the cupboard. "Do you want some?"

"Arthur." Alfred caught him around the waist one-armed, drawing him back. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be abrupt. I know this is hard for you."

Arthur put his hands to Alfred's forearm, trying to squirm free.

"Oi, let go."

"Hey." Alfred didn't loosen his grip, instead giving him a squeeze around his plush middle. "I mean it. I know this... it's not easy." He glanced at Mrs Beeton himself. "...And I suppose this _is _the first time you've been faced with an actual recipe since April. We've been living off bread and soup otherwise, it seems."

"Ha." Arthur shot him an icy smile. "You wouldn't know it to look at me. I'm still overweight."

"I told you dropping the weight wasn't going to be a walk in the park," Alfred replied patiently. "Believe me, I've been there. It's so easy to put it on but getting rid of it is a different story entirely."

"And you still think Christmas dinner with all the trimmings is a good idea, then?"

"Hey, it comes but once a year!" Alfred grinned and gave Arthur a kiss on the forehead. "As long as you don't eat the whole Christmas pudding by yourself, I don't think we have to worry about you putting anything back on."

"Christmas pudding?" Arthur arched his eyebrows. "My, how very British. Where did you say you got that cookbook again?"

"Never mind," Alfred grumbled, pushing Arthur away. "Go on, get out of here."

"But I wanted-"

"Tea. Yes. I'll bring you some." Alfred flapped his hand at him. "Don't touch _anything _on your way out."

"I _said _I was just looking."

"Yeah, yeah. You eat any more of that candied orange peel when my back is turned and I'll chop your damn fingers off."

"Ugh, that's supposed to be _my _line," Arthur groused as he shuffled away.

December this far north was unforgiving. Their apartment - a small, run-down flat in eastern Delaware - was chilly, with only a fireplace in the poky living room for heat; by night in the freezing bedroom they huddled close together under the thin blankets for warmth. This and roasting sausages over a crude fire of old newspapers every evening were so far removed from the luxury of the _Titanic _(the last time they had really known comfort) that they laughed over it with blue fingertips. Even their house in Colonial Boston hadn't been this cold and Medieval.

He threw a little more wood onto the fire and curled up close to it with a blanket and a Dickens, one of three books that made up his Christmas present from Alfred. They were tattered old things, second-hand from a small bookshop in town - _Great Expectations_, _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes _and _Paradise Lost _- but given that all of Arthur's own books were either at home in Britain or at the bottom of the Atlantic, they were a thoughtful and welcome gift. Alfred was wearing _his _present; a thick cable-knit jumper in royal blue Arthur had been making very slowly since August.

Having an entire plethora of reasons for not trusting Arthur in the kitchen, Alfred insisted that cooking was a solitary pursuit and today was no exception, it seemed; he brought him the promised tea, which he put on the hearth, and then vanished again, the smell of the roasting goose seeping throughout the tiny flat as the afternoon wore on. They were in hiding from their governments and so, despite bottomless expenses accounts, had to live on the breadline in order to remain out of sight: and they had had to scrimp and save to buy the goose and the parsnips and the brandy and other trimmings. Alfred, Arthur could tell, was looking forward to it, preparing the meal with the care and meticulousness of a masterful artist; he was skilled at most things, in fact, if he concentrated.

Alfred came back in as it was growing dark, a knife in one hand and two hot chestnuts in a cloth in the other.

"A little sampler," he said cheerfully, sitting down next to Arthur and deftly peeling the nuts. "It's almost ready."

"You spoil me."

"I do a bit, huh?" Alfred grinned at him as he offered him the chestnut. "Careful, it's hot."

"Thank you." Arthur took it and they both chewed in companionable silence for a while, watching the fire pop and spit. Arthur took great care to mark his place in _Great Expectations _with a newspaper scrap.

"Well?" Alfred nudged him expectantly.

"It was excellent, of course." Arthur smiled slyly at him. "Utterly perfect. That's what you want to hear, I'd wager."

"You know me so well." Alfred got up, ruffling Arthur's hair. "I'm gonna check the goose. You want to come through?"

Arthur followed him into the kitchen, which was warm with the heat of the stove. Their plain little wooden table was laid and lit with white candles for decoration, whilst the worksurface was littered with trays and bowls of allsorts of vegetables and extras like stuffing and cranberry sauce.

"This is amazing, Alfred." Arthur went to the cookbook and picked it up, flipping through all of Alfred's marked pages. "I can see how hard you've worked."

"Hey, nothing but the best for you, Art." Alfred lifted the goose - gleaming with crisp, crackling skin - from the oven to place it in the middle of the table. "And the leftovers'll last for a week, too."

"You had to alter some of these?" Arthur asked, stopping at the cranberry sauce recipe. "Based on the number of servings, I mean - given that there's only two of us."

"Some, yeah," Alfred replied vaguely, starting to dish helpings of everything onto two plates.

"Well, which ones?" Arthur's voice sharpened a little bit as he looked at Alfred over the book. "This cranberry sauce recipe says it can serve up to twenty-four people-"

"Arthur, please." Alfred abruptly reached across and took the book from him, snapping it shut. "You _promised _you wouldn't."

"But this... this isn't exactly pea soup and burnt sausages," Arthur said tersely. "This is far more on the scale of... well, of-"

"Of the _Titanic_, yes," Alfred interrupted coolly. "And the world that built the _Titanic_. The one that almost destroyed you."

Arthur said nothing, looking away angrily. Alfred watched him for a long moment before going back to his plates.

"I'm trying to help you," he went on in a low voice. "You know that, don't you?"

"Of course I know!" Arthur sank defeatedly into his chair. "But god...! It's so difficult trying to... to _convince _myself that I don't need to do the maths." He put his face in his hands. "...Sometimes I still do it, even with the soup," he admitted quietly.

"Look, I don't want to fight with you about this," Alfred replied. "Not right now. Will you please just eat dinner without looking at the book?" He heaved a sigh, offering Arthur his plate. "If it's that big a deal, you can do it later - like you used to, remember?"

Silence. Alfred didn't waver, holding out the plate with an angry resolve until, at last, Arthur took it from his hand and set it before himself. Roasted potatoes, candied parsnips, carrots and runner beans sliced thin and precisely with a sliver of butter melting over them; it wasn't a huge portion, just enough to be filling, but they hadn't eaten this well since April, it was true. Alfred poured the wine - a special effort on his part, Arthur knew, since it was no secret that he preferred lemonade or a similar sugar-spritzed abomination - and then took up his sharpened knife to carve the goose. This he did with a careless ease so that the cuts were clean but uneven - and he did it in silence. He always went quiet when he was upset. He speared three slices of meat and put them unceremoniously on Arthur's plate before going back to his own, serving himself.

"There's gravy, cranberry sauce, stuffing," he said flatly, gesturing around the table with a vague hand. "Whatever you want."

Arthur sat rather rigidly, looking at his plate. It looked wonderful, so freshly-hot that he could feel the steam on his face, but he couldn't bring himself to lift his fork, a sense of panic beginning to settle deep in his belly. He reached for his glass instead, swilling the wine around its crystal rim distractedly, tipping it towards his mouth to let the sharp and sour flavour rinse over his bottom lip. He couldn't tell how old it was but it was good wine.

"Arthur, eat." Alfred said it crisply, reaching for the cranberry sauce. He was silent for another long moment, tapping a generous spoonful of sticky red sauce onto his goose, before looking up at Arthur again with a pleading look on his face. "_Please _eat."

Arthur made quite the point of looking away as he snatched up his fork, spearing a slice of goose and taking a bite out of it. He chewed moodily; it was roasted to perfection, of course, but he was loathe to show the barest hint of it to Alfred, who watched him guardedly as he ate.

"Well," Alfred said icily, "I see all your manners have gone to hell, at least."

"And what is _that _supposed to mean, exactly?" Arthur snapped, finally looking at him.

"Look, if you're going to go about being a gentleman-"

"I _am _a gentleman!"

"Then compliment my damn cooking!" Alfred banged his fist on the table. "I worked really hard to make it perfect and you're the only person I have to impress with it!"

He fixed Arthur with a somewhat pathetic gaze. This was, of course, an evasive tactic, a last-ditch effort to get them out of the mire of bad feeling before they sank too deeply; Arthur appreciated that, at least, and thought he'd better take it. Alfred was still frustrated at Arthur's preoccupations and Arthur was still prickling with the need for his old habits but there was no need to spoil everything. They both saw that, it seemed.

"Fine," Arthur sighed. "It's wonderful - the goose is to die for, the vegetables are sublime, the gravy is pitch-perfect." He sat up straighter, immersed in his dignity. "Now bugger off and let me eat in peace."

Alfred gave a relieved grin.

"That's what I like to hear," he said quietly. "Merry Christmas, you grouchy old bastard."

* * *

"Good?"

"Oh, yes." Arthur took another bite of mince pie, dripping with thick cream. "Quite as good as those served last Christmas at whatever godforsaken ball I was escorted to in all my finery." He licked a dab of cream off his forefinger. "It turns out rows of campaign medals don't look quite as impressive when your buttons are straining so badly."

"Heh." Alfred sipped at his cocoa; they were curled up together by the fire with the blanket and a steaming cup each. "That's why I only made a couple of mince pies - I figured there was no need to tempt you."

"I could eat a tray of these, I admit. Mrs Beeton, eh?"

Alfred shrugged.

"Thought I'd give something new a go." He sighed and laid his head on Arthur's shoulder. "Speaking of something new, we'll have to move on again in January. I have an apartment in Pennsylvania."

"Warmer than this, I hope."

"Sort of. It has two fireplaces - one in the bedroom and one in the living room."

"That sounds heavenly." Arthur yawned. "Even the bed gets so cold at times."

"I know plenty of ways to warm up the bed," Alfred said, arching his eyebrows.

"Ugh, you _are _obscene when the fancy takes you..."

"Hey, I don't want to hear that from you!" Alfred poked Arthur in his rounded belly. "Besides, it's good exercise for working off mince pies."

"Don't _prod _me, you cheeky perisher!"

Alfred laughed, nuzzling against him.

"This is nice," he murmured, stretching his toes before the fire. "How long has it been since we spent Christmas like this? Just you and me without a trace of flashiness?"

"Oh, well over a century, I should think. Just before you threw your little tantrum - 1772, 1773, something like that..."

"I've missed it."

"Me too." Arthur sighed. "That sort of thing gets so tiresome after a while - being paraded like a prize horse, I mean. It's nice to just have a little bit of privacy for once." He looked down at himself. "...Especially given that I'm, ah, not at my best."

"I don't mind." Even though the memory of Arthur at the height of his glory stirred at his words - powerful, confident, dressed in beautiful clothes of the best materials his empire had to offer - Alfred did not think any less of him now, overweight in worn grey wool with mussed hair and a hole in the heel of one of his socks. "...You know you're always the same to me." He grinned happily, resting his chin in his hands. "I'm glad I get you all to myself again - like when I was small."

"Greed and gluttony, how well we go together," Arthur sighed, rubbing fondly at Alfred's hair. "Although the roles used to be the other way around, it's true."

"I think it's only fair that I should want you all for myself given that everyone _else _spent last century living out of your pocket."

"What, breaking all my best china at those Christmas parties of mine?" Arthur snorted. "Believe me, I've learnt my lesson about that sort of thing. I was only doing it to show off, anyway."

"You, Art? Showing off?" Alfred gave a teasing grin.

"Oh, bugger _off_..."

"Wait there." Alfred swiped his thumb over Arthur's cheek, taking away a tiny smear of cream. "Bit of cream." He licked his thumb clean.

"Well," Arthur sighed, "I suppose that's a few calories at least that won't sit on my hips..."

"I can think of a few other things that could sit on your hips."

"This again?" Arthur raised his eyebrows. "If I didn't know any better, Mr Jones, I would say you were trying to get me into your bed."

"_Our _bed," Alfred corrected. "Our tiny cold bed with springs like fucking knives that goddamn jab into your spine at three in the morning."

"Ah, you have a way with words that even Shakespeare would be proud of," Arthur said dryly, pinching Alfred's nose. "But alright then."

Alfred pulled back with a laugh.

"Really?"

"Yes." Arthur stretched, smiling fondly at him. "...I suppose it'll at least stop me from eating the rest of those mince pies."

* * *

Just two more to go! I can't believe it's almost Christmas Day again, wth...

Also, as a lame shout-out, months and months ago **Haku **actually drew _1912_!Arthur for me. He's very cute. ^^ There's a link on my profile if you are interested. :3


	4. 1930

Day 4 already! o.O

Thanks to: **Empress Vegah, amoka22 **and **Hada-Fiction**!

1930

"Ugh, what the hell is in this?!" Arthur exclaimed, snatching up the blank bottle to examine it. "Floor polish?!"

Alfred shrugged cheerfully.

"Maybe. I read in the paper some of the bootleggers put allsorts in - brake fluid, furniture polish, medical stuff..."

"And where did you get this, dare I ask?"

"Some guy. Does it matter?" Alfred glanced around distractedly. "And hey, keep it down, will you? If Hoover catches us drinking bootleg alcohol in the goddamned White House, he'll skin me alive."

"You _deserve _to be skinned alive for this!" Arthur huffed. "Good thing we're bloody immortal."

Alfred grinned, taking a swig of his own; he pulled a horrible face as he swallowed, shuddering.

"Aha," he laughed weakly, "it burns going down..."

Arthur rolled his eyes irritably.

"For god's sake, why didn't you just come to mine? You know, where alcohol is legal and you don't have to poison yourself in the process of merry-making."

"The only ship sailing out was the _Olympic_ and there's no fucking way I'm getting on that thing," Alfred said in a low voice. "You know that."

"Well, then-"

"And before you say it," Alfred went on, "I'm really glad you didn't try to sneak anything in with you. I didn't want to have to spend Christmas Eve going to down the the jail to bail you out - not that I even have the spare cash _to _bail you out."

"Bail me out?" Arthur stretched and laid his legs over Alfred's. "Would that even be allowed? I thought rum-running was being taken rather seriously?"

"More than ever," Alfred sighed, "which is a little ironic given that all anyone wants to do right now is drown their sorrows. I do wonder if half as many bankers would have blown their brains out last year had they been able to reach for the gin instead..."

"Oh, that business. At least I've escaped my ministers whinging about it, I suppose." Arthur put his tumbler aside and felt for his cigarette case, flipping it open and offering it to Alfred. "Do you want one?"

"Sure." Alfred took and put it in his mouth, leaning forward. "Got a light?"

"Yes." Arthur took out his lighter, an engraved and gold-plated gift from Alfred a few Christmases before; he snapped it open and carelessly held out the flame-

"Jeez, careful, careful!" Alfred hurriedly put his glass aside. "You trying the blow the whole place sky-high?! This stuff is potentially explosive!"

"You're not filling me with with much hope for my health," Arthur said icily, lighting his own. "Or much confidence that I'll even _see _Christmas Day."

"To be fair, the amount of reported cases of blindness recently is pretty staggering..." Alfred took the lighter himself and lit up, leaning back with a satisfied sigh to blow his smoke towards the elaborate ceiling rose. "That's the good stuff. I haven't had a smoke in three days." He looked glumly at his cigarette. "I don't have a bottomless expenses account anymore. Hoover said I had to ration them."

"You do smoke too much," Arthur said. "You're worse than me."

"Hey, it's my only vice! You know, aside from drinking floor polish."

"Alfred, you don't even _like _alcohol," Arthur pointed out dryly. "Why you're going to such extreme lengths to defy the prohibition law is beyond me."

"Because _one_, the prohibition law is stupid and has caused more trouble than ever," Alfred said moodily, "and _two_, you know me. Now that they've said I'm not _allowed _to do it, I want to do it." He took another gulp of his poison, wincing. "Besides, I figured you'd be expecting alcohol if I invited you for Christmas drinks."

"Well," Arthur sighed, tipping his head back to look at the fire, "I suppose it's the thought that counts. Next year, though, just bloody well come to mine. I have an excellent port from 1902 in the cellar."

"Oh, then I'll want lemonade." Alfred grinned at him. "You know that."

"Yes," Arthur muttered, "I suppose I do. Well, either way, it'll be something like this - just the two of us sitting in front of the fire, drinking and complaining." He smiled weakly. "Those lavish parties are a thing of the past, I fear. Nobody has the money for that sort of thing anymore."

Alfred laughed, flopping back to rest his head in Arthur's lap; he smiled up at him, his smile laced with smoke.

"You're telling me. Have you seen our damn tree?" He pointed across the room towards the far wall, where a limp, sickly-looking specimen of a fir was languishing beneath a magnificent painting of the Founding Fathers signing the Declaration of Independence; it was crudely-decorated with a few red baubles hanging sadly in the ether. "Not exactly in the spirit of the masterpieces Ludwig used to put up for you, huh?"

"Oh, I don't know," Arthur said faintly, "you might be doing it a mercy."

"It lost a few branches on the way in. Got stuck in a doorway."

"A few?"

"Okay, a _lot _of branches. And the needles were absolutely _everywhere_! Hoover was _not _happy."

"I expect he wasn't." Arthur stroked Alfred's hair back. "No offence, love, but next year..._ just come to mine_. "

"Probably a good idea." Alfred stretched happily, nuzzling against Arthur's hand. "At least then I won't have to spend a whole day hiding in a wardrobe from my president."


	5. 1942

Day 5 - and it's a Christmas Day update! Unfortunately I couldn't get this finished last night, which is when it was originally supposed to go up... (also this is pretty late on Christmas Day, even, because, you know... _Downton Abbey_... T.T)

Thanks to:** Lamashtar Two, Guest, amoka22, xxalexisurgodxx **and another **Guest**!

1942

"We should get up," Arthur mumbled, stretching a little over Alfred's chest before giving up, flopping against him.

"Yeah," Alfred sighed contentedly, carding his hand through Arthur's mussed hair. "Yeah, we should."

He exhaled, closing his eyes, and they were both still for a moment longer, cuddling closer under the expensive covers. Alfred lazily drew a little pattern with his thumb on the small of Arthur's back, humming to himself.

"Bing Crosby?" Arthur asked groggily.

"You got it." Alfred stretched a little bit, his toes pointing and spreading, and then yawned. "It's weird to be back here, huh?"

"Indeed." Arthur's voice grew a little stiffer, a little more careful. "1915 was the last time."

"I seem to recall my room being grander back then." Alfred paused. "I wonder which room they held the _Titanic _investigation in." He shuddered. "God, I hope it wasn't this one."

"I doubt it - unless they conducted the investigation from the bed." Arthur finally, grudgingly, pried himself up, patting Alfred's chest. "Come on, it won't do for us to be late. We'd better get dressed."

Alfred scrabbled half-heartedly at him, trying to keep him in the bed, but Arthur slithered away, stepping out onto the gorgeous thick carpet. He stretched, still naked, and gave a dismissive wave of his hand when Alfred made a show of turning over and pretending to ogle him for all he was worth.

"Come off it," Arthur muttered, finding his underwear and tugging it back on. "You've had more than an eyeful this afternoon."

"Another eyeful wouldn't hurt," Alfred pouted, watching him take down his dress uniform: they were pristine, barely-worn, and hung side-by-side, straight-backed, from the ornate wardrobe.

"Never mind that," Arthur said shortly, looking to the clock as he pulled his uniform trousers on and buttoned them decisively. "We need to be downstairs at six. Hurry and get dressed." He rubbed his thumb over his chin, turning to look in the dresser mirror. "Ugh, I'd better shave. I didn't bother this morning..."

He snatched up his shirt and shrugged it on as he headed towards the bathroom, his braces swinging at his knees; and he paused at the doorframe, turning to glare at Alfred, who hadn't even attempted to properly sit up yet.

"Oi," he growled, "get up, you lazy little bugger."

"I'm up, I'm up," Alfred grumbled, flailing overenthusiastically with the covers.

Arthur didn't wait around to watch him actually peel himself away from the mattress, shutting the bathroom door behind him. He buttoned his shirt and tucked it in and then reached for his shaving kit, pulling it all out from its well-worn leather pouch.

This was typical of Alfred, who had essentially comandeered the whole occasion: the annual Officer's Christmas Ball was usually a fairly low-key affair held in a blacked-out nightclub in London's West End. Of course, enter Alfred and the United States and suddenly the thing was three times the size and as many times as grand, held in New York's famous and glorious Waldorf-Astoria hotel. Arthur had argued against moving it, given that it was a tradition of the British officers and _their _place to invite their new American allies, not vice versa, but Alfred had quite insisted, seeming to imply that it was guaranteed that they'd be bombed out in London (it didn't seem to matter that they'd had a virtually incident-free track record for the past three years). In the end, Arthur had been thoroughly outvoted and had had no choice but to accept the move. He supposed it wasn't Alfred's fault that he didn't understand the concept of Make Do and Mend, nor indeed that of Keeping Calm and Carrying On: he was still very new to the war and hadn't suffered the rationing and the bombing, the waking up in the morning to find that the world had fallen in around you. No, Alfred was rich again, booming better than ever, and he didn't understand.

When Arthur came back to finish dressing, Alfred was out of bed, yes, but in only his trousers, leaning out of the open window; the lamplight from the street glossed warmly over the curve of his bare back.

"What on earth are you doing hanging out the window half-dressed?" Arthur asked, incredulous.

"Looking for snow." Alfred said this in a matter-of-fact manner, craning his neck to look up towards the clouds peeping through the tall buildings. "It's Christmas Day. It should snow."

"I hear you're supposed to send a request for snow six weeks in advance," Arthur replied blithely, knotting his tie.

"I've been wishing for snow all year!"

"Well, in that case, you ought to have asked that bloated red monstrosity you made of St Nicholas for some."

"Hey, at least my bloated red monstrosity doesn't terrorise children!" Alfred replied, finally coming back into the room; he shut the window with a snap. "Oh, wait, no, that was just _you _taking delight in telling me St Nick would steal me away forever if I waited up for him."

"I still stand by the notion that he must be a fairy of some sort," Arthur said primly. "Now will you _please get dressed_?"

Alfred mimicked him unflatteringly as he sarcastically skipped to the bathroom, shutting the door with a swing of his hips; and, beyond it, Arthur could hear him singing Irving Berlin's _White Christmas _in an obnoxiously loud manner. He determined to take as little notice of him as possible - that song was all the more irritating for its current standing at the number one position onLucky Strikes' _Your Hit Parade_, which Alfred avidly followed.

He was carefully adjusting the coils of gold braiding looped from his chest to his shoulder when Alfred at last reappeared, his hair perfectly coiffed; he had quite the habit of mimicking the fashion of the young men, though as a rule his hair, much like Arthur's, was fairly untameable and always fell back into his natural side parting before long.

"Well, well, don't you look dapper," Alfred teased, flicking at the braiding. "I never got this stuff."

"It's for strangling annoying Lieutenant Colonels with." Arthur thrust Alfred's uniform at him. "On. _Now_."

"That's not what you were saying earlier-"

"Alfred, we're going to be _late_."

Arthur threw Alfred's uniform at him and stalked away, going to sit on the edge of the bed, which Alfred had barely bothered to neaten up. He distractedly smoothed the sheets out as Alfred dressed before the mirror. Their hats were nestled together on the desk, polished peaks gleaming and braiding glossy; he went to lift them, inspecting his own to ensure it was spotless.

"There," Alfred said moodily, at last turning to him. "Done."

"Almost." Arthur came to him, fidgeting with a crease in his collar, tightening the knot of his tie, tugging his jacket down; Alfred endured it patiently, long used to it. "Here." He handed him his hat before passing him, putting on his own before the mirror. Alfred joined him, his at his preferred, perfectly-skewed angle.

"Goddamn," Alfred said, grinning, "but we clean up well, huh?"

"Eventually," Arthur said with a roll of his eyes. "Come on, we'd better go down."

"Sure." Now that he was dressed and ready to go, Alfred had a bit of a bounce in his step, light-footed as he went to the door and opened it. "Let's go, Art!"

"You've certainly changed your tune."

"Uh, yeah, because you were _nagging _me before."

"Well, pardon me for not wanting to explain to Mr Roosevelt that we were late because you were leaning out of the bloody window with no shirt on."

"Tch, he wouldn't surprised. I do stuff like all the time. One time I climbed up on to the White House roof to get a kite down."

"I assume you were fully-dressed."

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Alfred said teasingly, grinning. He offered Arthur his elbow as the door swung shut behind them. "Shall we, Major-General?"

"Oh, I suppose so, Lieutenant Colonel," Arthur sighed, slipping his arm through Alfred's.

"What's the matter?" Alfred teased, nudging him. "Tired?"

"Somewhat." Arthur smirked dryly at him. "You took quite a bit out of me this afternoon."

"Not _all _of it, I hope," Alfred replied, leaning in to give him a quick kiss on the temple.

"Oh please..." Arthur patted Alfred's arm as they began the descent into the magnificent Park Avenue lobby. "You know me better than that, love."

"Heh. Well, I know - despite your bellyaching - that you're going to love this."

"Well, I don't know that there was any call for you to steal the glory."

"Consider it a rest. You've done your bit." Alfred snatched up a handful of candy canes from a silver tray as they passed it, offering one to Arthur. "Candy cane?"

"No thank you - although something to drink wouldn't go amiss."

Alfred laughed, sticking one of the canes into his mouth and shoving the rest into his pocket for later.

"Coming right up." He steered Arthur through the lobby, looking very pleased with himself. "In the meantime... thoughts? Only positive feedback, of course."

Arthur looked fondly - if despairingly - at him.

"While I do think you've taken several leaves out of my very Victorian book," he said, "I can't deny that this is impressive." They reached a serving man with a tray of a champagne, helping themselves; and Arthur looked around as he sipped at his.

Of course, the Waldorf-Astoria was just about the last word in glamour and Alfred had certainly set his people a daunting task to make it look more breathtaking still; a huge Christmas tree bursting with brilliant flashes of red and gold stood at one end of the lobby, stretching almost to the ceiling, and the decor was a tasteful but festive sprucing of red velvets and gold silks and cording. A band in their black tails played a spritely rendition of 'Let It Snow', filling up the huge room with its famous mosaic flooring; over which milled all manner of Allied officers from all branches of the armed forces and their dates and wives, all in stunning gowns of deep-jewel colours like reds and purples and greens. The officers, like Alfred and Arthur, were in full dress uniform, all buffed to perfection, buttons twinkling in the light - with a great many of the female officers forgoing gowns in favour of their uniforms, too. More so than any of Arthur's Imperial parties, there seemed to be a real sense of warmth and cheer to this gathering: the hallmark of the Officer's Ball. This was a well-deserved night for everyone here and Arthur had looked forward to Christmas Night since 1939 purely for that reason. It warmed his heart to see them all smile.

"It wonderful," he said again, looking at Alfred. "It's always wonderful. It doesn't matter where it is - but thank you for this all the same. Truth be told... it was a relief not to have to organise it this year. It'll be nice to just... _enjoy _myself for once."

"Hey, everyone needs a break, even if there's a war on," Alfred said in a low voice, hooking his half-eaten candy cane over the rim of his glass. "Even you, Mr Kirkland."

"Well, that's very kind, Mr Jones." Arthur touched his cheek fondly. "You do spoil me so."

"What say we _both _just enjoy ourselves tonight?" Alfred pressed. "Just you and I as ourselves like we used to have. We don't have to be nations. We can just be human."

Arthur smiled.

"We can pretend, at least," he replied. "Just for tonight while there is no duty."

Alfred leaned in and they shared a quick, chaste kiss, hidden in the heart of the jubilant crowd.

"Merry Christmas to all," he said, his smile wrapped around the familiar words, "and to all a good night."

* * *

The _Titanic _enquiry was indeed held in the Waldorf-Astoria (the second part of the name comes from 'Astor'; ironically, John Jacob Astor IV died during the sinking).

Many many years ago, soldiers did used to walk around with linked arms, so it isn't actually terribly unsusual for Arthur and Alfred to do it in public (Stephen Fry seems pretty convinced they were just doing it to cover up nicking each other's medals, though).

Well, haha, my countdown didn't get the same response as the past two years and so I feel it hasn't really been exactly the same fun "interactive" experience as 2011 and 2010 - but perhaps that was my fault for choosing to set the fics this year in a pre-established fic universe. Either way, thanks to all those of you who commented and I hope everyone enjoyed reading it even if they had nothing to say.

It's a little bit late now but Merry Christmas! Hope everyone has had a lovely day. :3

xXx


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